Chapter 4
The master suite of the main manor house was quiet, insulated from the distant murmur of the reception below by heavy velvet drapes and three-inch oak paneling.
In the adjoining marble bathroom, the steam smelled of lavender and warm water. Bram sat on the edge of the deep porcelain tub, his little legs dangling as Elspeth gently worked a warm, damp cloth through his dark hair, clearing away the last remnants of dried cream and sugar. Edie sat on a velvet footstool beside them, clutching a small brass soldier she had taken from her mother’s desk, her shoes kicked off, humming a tuneless toddler song.
Bram flinched slightly as the cloth brushed behind his ear.
"Does it hurt?" Elspeth asked softly. Her voice here was entirely different from the voice she used beneath the marquee—it was maternal, warm, and protective, though the hard iron underneath never fully melted away.
"No," Bram whispered, staring down at his small loafers. "My shirt is dirty."
"We have a hundred shirts, Bram," she replied, using a dry towel to fluff his damp hair. She pulled back and cupped his chin in her palm, tilting his face up until his hazel eyes met hers. "Why didn't you move when he held the bowl?"
Bram’s lower lip quivered, but he held his chin high. "He said Edie wouldn't get her cake."
Elspeth’s throat tightened, a rare, sharp ache striking her chest. At four years old, the boy already had the weight of the family pressed into his spine. He had stood there, humiliating himself, taking the abuse because he thought it was his duty to shield his sister.
"Listen to me," Elspeth said, her voice dropping into a fierce, quiet cadence. "You are a Wycliffe. You do not bow your head to a mongrel to save a crumb from the table. When someone holds what is yours out of reach, you do not wait for them to give it back. You break their wrist and take the whole tray. Do you understand me?"
Bram blinked, absorbing the words with a solemn nod. "I understand, Mama."
"Good." She kissed his forehead, smelling the clean citrus soap on his skin. "Now go into the dressing room. Mrs. Clark has fresh trousers and a blue sweater laid out for you."
As the children scampered through the arched doorway, the heavy suite door clicked open.
Dominic stepped inside, closing the door behind him and turning the brass lock. He did not look at the private quarters; his gaze remained fixed respectfully on the carpet.
"They didn't leave through the service gate, boss," Dominic reported quietly.
Elspeth rose to her feet, smoothing down the front of her trousers. The maternal warmth vanished instantly, replaced by the calculating chill of a field commander. "Where are they?"
"The west wing library," Dominic said. "Magnus has a private safe behind the portrait of Don Arthur. He sent Oswald to retrieve a steel strongbox. And there’s someone else in the room with them."
Elspeth walked over to her dressing table, opened the velvet drawer, and pulled out her firearm—a custom SIG Sauer P229 with blackened walnut grips. She racked the slide with a single, crisp snap.
"Who?" she asked.
"Lucian Moretti’s nephew," Dominic said, his jaw tightening. "The boy from the south side. The one who runs their private loan office in Newark. He arrived through the kitchen entrance ten minutes ago carrying a leather diplomatic pouch."
Elspeth’s eyes darkened into twin obsidian stones. "So Oswald wasn't just throwing a tantrum over dessert. He was putting on a show to prove he could provoke me."
"It looks like an audition, Elspeth," Dominic agreed. "The Morettis have been testing our perimeter on the river for six months. If they think Magnus still has the keys to the older vaults, they might try to force an extraction before we can purge the books."
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Elspeth holstered the weapon beneath her arm, adjusting the lapels of her charcoal suit.
"Call Frank and the four boys from Red Hook," she said, checking her gold wristwatch. "Tell them to secure the courtyard beneath the west library. Nobody leaves that room on two legs."
